like a tear


i was once told i have a thousand faces
so i try to have a million personalities
in order to distract them
from noticing
the one permanent feeling i can never change;
the one lump of frozen emotion at the pit of my heart
weighing me down and
digging open a hole i once
managed to heal with
ice and solidity.

it is an uncanny feeling
at the tip of my stare
as they walk past me hand in hand
like a monochromatic thought. Without
a care in the world, their happiness
drowned me
with questions as to
i never could keep the life of such smiles
in between our hands,
before, when i had all the care
in the universe
to try.


i am aware of a self-wounded tangle
i dwell between
but it is a comfortably
numbing realization
that no one else but i
can create such an extent of pain
to myself, now.

i am my own freedom
i am my own cage

there are sleepless nights
etched beneath my eyelids and
torture streaked across the way i
stare at spots for too long
every other ten seconds.


i conjure with every blink of my eye
an artwork of pain
and it becomes more vivid
and much more tasteless
with every exhausted breath:

faded memories of a face familiar
who once stuffed so much into her heart
she forgot how to exert
the glow on her cheeks and sparkles from
her pupils that would
trickle down from
the deepest feeling within her
like a tear.

photographic smiles

i stop in the center of catastrophe
breathing in the stench of failure
capturing in the palm of my hand
the halt of a future
i once saw so clearly
but now cannot find.

there are a million shards of glass
reflecting my torn
rippedandslashed state of
and i cannot hold on to the passing of time

the passing of life

a proportion of stashed away
shouts for my recognition but
i cannot hear what can perfect
a long ruined situation
i call myself

it is not easy picking up the pieces
that taste like smithereens and look like

my mind is dead
and it is not for long
before i blind myself with
a colourless truth
that perhaps i am not as great
as i hoped to be
because greatness became
non-existent ever since the day i
picked up a razor blade
and smiled at it.

it is a cruel world
with no place for me.

welcome home

i cannot deal with the numerous repetitions
of me breaking down and
always having somebody
pull me out before i could
taste the full plunge into depression.

i could find a thousand adjectives to
suit me.

it is a sick mind i own
one of black paint and
gruesome stories of
a dying soul named after me.

crashing through a world of coincidences and
i found a world where everything i do
affects more than just pain
and ruin;
a direction i cannot stray from.

i miss touching the bottom -
at least i was certain of my situation, then
a comfortable relief of
tasting the dirt of the dark on every
internal scab i owned.

the repeated nights of
wishing for the moment when i was
sprawled across the floor
tasting the end
but i prefer keeping the routine to myself
because pity is not the best gift
they give
and i hate those eyes that watch me
knowing me more
than i know myself.

there are many ways i can
escape all this
but none are possible without me
knowing where i stand;
without the certainty of place
how will i know where to move from?

the seventeens

There is the hollow taste at the back of my tongue
centered with bitterness
the taste of cigarettes and a long gone pain
revisiting like the after-
taste of pepsi
minus the sweetness/add the tendency to
dry up the length of your throat like
a gasp of fresh anger.

It is a song I can't erase from
because the lines are punched in like
memories of a story I tried to end
but ran out of strength to
along the way so I
let it be with a trail of ink and
torn out pages of a once favourite chapter,
things I pray will fade
things I know will never
fade, eventually.

And I taste the chill of
a restrained tear on the
graze of my cheek
like the finality of what I have once again become.


no blankets

the plaster on her index finger
is a clasp of smoke
a familiar scent of
settling calmness;
an aftermath of an aftermath
when pain no longer feels like pain
but a habitual routine
of sleeping without blankets
because they no longer hold protection.

there are pieces of leftover thread
from attempts to
sew herself whole
a 1000 bruises beneath her spine
the cause and effect of
straightening herself out.

the flamboyant scars etched like artwork
but she feels bland like paper
but bland is better
for one night of nothing is heaven
considering the other 364 waking nightmares
she now knows by heart
and can tell you how many times
she will scream the following night
an explosive mind.

there are pieces of leftover thread
from attempts to
sew herself whole
but the neat lines of
her self-perfection
are nowhere insight.

a slit in the mask

there are days when i want to
eat my guts;
days when i need to regurgitate
but the words take too much
to push through my throat
so they stop midway and
ruin my appetite.

it is terrifying when the feelings
remain frozen at the
wrench of my heart
despite the number of times
i change my hairstyle
or scene
or friends
or way of living
like a permanence i try to rub off
until it becomes an obvious scar
i try to hide
with bracelets
and layers
and layers
of cover.

an end

the unhealthy hollowness under my throat
absorbs every dry breath I take
searching for a taste that is not there;
I have run out of substance

and ink-

every intake is stale
the aftermath of yesterdreams
that leave me swallowing
and biting hard on nothing.

like a fingernail ripped apart
too close to the skin
raw like an ugly, unholy, filthy truth

I miss writing about nothing
and everything
forgetting how it started
making up how it ends
as I tumble along
because things that don't exist
are the best to alter,
like life before it went
terribly wrong.

like a beginning.